Rich Boys Don't Marry Poor Boys
by 4pollos
Summary: Summer love is the last thing Skwisgaar expects to find during his stay at Andromeda's Vineyard as a newly rich twenty-year-old, but for a servant boy, Toki Wartooth proves endearing. AU. Skwisgaar/Toki, others.
1. Chapter 1

My new side project. It was one of those ideas that just sort of occurred to me, and I was so into it I couldn't put it in the back of my mind or else it'd drive me crazy, so this will run alongside Attending Fuckface Academy for a while. I don't have as grand as plans for this story as I do for AFA, though, so don't get frightened! You can still expect the AFA update on Valentine's Day. As far as the next update for this, who knows. This is a rich vs poor AU dynamic type thing for Skwisgaar and Toki, which basically means me having way too much fun coming up with douchey rich boy outfits to put a young Skwisgaar in, but whatever. I only hope you guys are as into that as I am.

* * *

The car ride to their new summer home in Andromeda's Vineyard is, naturally, long and painful. Skwisgaar is sitting on the right side of the backseat of Oscar Explosion's expensive as fuck car, his face in his hand and his fingers twirling his hair around themselves. Nathan, his new stepbrother, is asleep, drooling and snoring against his own window. His mother has a hand on Oscar's knee and Oscar is driving fast, carefree and dangerous. Skwisgaar, apathetic, jangles a leg, mourning the death of his phone an hour back, which he had been using to read music world gossip and suffer through a text conversation with his half-girlfriend, Trindle, before the battery ran out.

Oscar snaps the car around a corner, Skwisgaar bracing himself so his head doesn't conk into the window and Nathan waking from his sleep with a start. They depart from the narrow highway onto a backwoods road that needs to be paved, Oscar's car taking it with ease. Five minutes down that, a behemoth of a mansion is unearthed. The house is glorious: four stories tall, built two hundred years ago but remodeled into a fashionable fusion of old and new, the intricate iron gates standing tall and proud in the June sunlight. Oscar slams the breaks just a few inches behind them and leans out the window, tapping a code into the security box. The gates slide open into an arched driveway, the doors to the mansion sitting at the vertex and a manicured lawn filling the space between, that Oscar glides the car across with ease.

Oscar, Nathan, Skwisgaar's mother and Skwisgaar spill out from the vehicle and stand in the shadow of their summer house, shielding their eyes. Skwisgaar is impressed in a mild kind of way, more wanting to get inside his temporary bedroom and jack off to the picture Trindle sent of her tits, but his mother is tittering on about how _great _and _big _it is, hanging off of Oscar's arm and practically cooing the innuendos. Skwisgaar looks over the car at Nathan, sharing a disgusted look with him.

"Let's go inside," Oscar says, curving a hand down Skwisgaar's mother's arm. "I called ahead, Jean-Pierre has prepared us lunch."

"I've never had a cook before," Skwisgaar's mother says, and the focus on getting her English correct forces her to speak slowly, stupidly. Another shared look of disgust with Nathan and they're walking up the steps to the house.

It smells like mothballs inside, but otherwise it's pleasant. The entranceway has a high ceiling and an ornate tiled floor. They head to their right, where a large, formal dining room awaits them. In the dining room are two people, a crippled older man in chef's clothes and a teenage boy with raggedy hair that looks younger than Skwisgaar himself.

"Toki," Oscar says, nodding at the boy with the raggedy hair. He nods once, ripping his eyes from the nothingness he'd been staring into to Oscar's face. "Unpack our bags, would you? Serveta and I are staying on the suite in the second floor, Nathan has the master on that same floor, and Skwisgaar's in the master on the third." Toki nods again and unclamps his hands from behind his back, walking past them and, presumably, out to the car.

"Sir," the man in chef's clothes, whom Skwisgaar assumes to be Jean-Pierre says, "your brunch will be out in just a minute. Looking forward to cooking for you again." He, too, nods and flees, this time out a door at the end of the dining room.

"Who was the boy?" Serveta has once more attached herself to Oscar, fingers dancing along where the sleeves of his polo expose his upper arm.

"The groundskeeper's boy, I think his name is Toki. His father died in the winter, a tragedy, so be nice to him." He says the last part to Skwisgaar and Nathan, turning around; Nathan rolls his eyes and Skwisgaar waves his hand, dismissing the thought.

Jean-Pierre returns then, opening the door with his back while he carries dishes in his hands. He sets them on the table and Skwisgaar looks at them: some sort of fancy egg dish, an elaborate salad, French bread. They take their seats at the table, Oscar sitting at the head with Serveta to his right and Nathan to his left, Skwisgaar beside Nathan, and allow Jean-Pierre to serve them. Skwisgaar picks at his food, eating the cherry tomatoes out of the salad and ripping the inside of the French bread from its shell, and waits an appropriate amount of time to excuse himself from the table and get settled in his room.

There he finds Toki, lugging Skwisgaar's suitcases through a door propped open with a wastebasket. Skwisgaar leans in the doorframe, crosses his arms and watches him. He can't be but a handful of years younger than Skwisgaar, and has the look of somebody that's just started growing into themselves, his narrow body tapering into rounded muscles at point sand spots of acne revealed with his hair pushed behind his ears. The shirt he's wearing is ill-fitted, half a size too big, and his cargo shorts hang low on his hips, his socks bunching at the ankles, and there's a thin strip of sweat soaked across his lower back. Skwisgaar's amused—it's quaint, really, and he knows he should be nice to the help but feels no inclination to do that whatsoever.

"Dones?" he asks, and Toki freezes, hunched over the last of Skwisgaar's bags. He's placed them at the foot of the bed. He turns around, eyes wide.

"I didn't hear you come in. Yes, I'm finished."

Skwisgaar recognizes the accent in Toki's tone—Norwegian, with the vowels of a villager. Interesting. Skwisgaar raises an eyebrow, trying to nonverbally browbeat the other boy out of the room. Toki seems to pick up because he ducks his head and shuffles past Skwisgaar, arms that are a bit too long for his body swinging by his sides. He removes the wastebasket and shuts the door behind him, and Skwisgaar laughs into his empty room.

He digs around in his bags for his phone charger and searches the walls for an outlet, finding one, blessedly, between the nightstand and the huge bed. He plugs the phone in and gets up to lock the door while it turns on, tendrils of arousal curling in his abdomen. He pushes his salmon twill shorts down and reaches his right hand into his boxers, using the left to bring up his conversation with Trindle. He scrolls up a bit, past her annoying declarations of love, and finds the picture of her tits. Perfect. He starts to rub at his blossoming erection. He's pretty sure Trindle is using him to get to Nathan, the true object of her affections, but the orgasm he experiences in about five minutes more than makes up for that.

Already sleepy from the car ride he tucks his dick back in his boxers and wiggles out of his shorts, kicking off his Sperrys, and rolls over on his mattress, haphazardly pulling the duvet up his body. He dozes off in a light sleep, suspended between consciousness and somnolence, until somebody bangs against his door and calls him down to lunch. He groans and sits up, checks his phone. Three new texts from Trindle. He reads them and doesn't respond, getting dressed (though he neglects to put his shoes on) and going downstairs.

They eat lunch on the back patio at one of the few wicker tables, crisp finger sandwiches with succulent watermelon and sweet iced tea. From here Skwisgaar can see much of the grounds, spotting Toki trimming hedges in the distance, Jean-Pierre scurrying around to accommodate them. Oscar and Skwisgaar's mother are talking about the block party tonight, as they're one of the lasts to arrive, and there's many people they need to meet and become acquainted with.

"You'll just love the Cornichons," Oscar is saying, swirling the ice in his iced tea with a straw. "They have a son that's about Nathan and Skwisgaar's age, a little older, that's an absolute shame to their name. Then there's the Rocksteins—the boy, Leonard, he's about their age as well. I haven't seen all these kids since they were just toddlers. Lots of possible friends." He raises his glass towards Skwisgaar and Nathan, who share their third disgusted look of the evening and do not raise their glasses back.

"Is this party, like, mandatory?" Nathan asks, grimacing. He looks utterly out of place, dressed in all black and surly among the charming wicker furniture and picturesque landscape. He has his arms crossed over his chest, his index finger and thumb picking at the nail polish on his right hand.

"Yes, Nathan, of course," Oscar says. "I want you boys to have a good time out here. I met your mother here when I was young, you know," Oscar says, and Skwisgaar almost laughs at the way his mother clenches up, curls her fingers into Oscar's forearm, her expression going sour.

"Yes, Dad, I know," Nathan grumbles. "You've told that story, like, fifty fucking times." Oscar's mustache twitches at the profanity, but he doesn't admonish his son.

"I don'ts," Skwisgaar says, sitting up and leaning forward into the conversation. "Tells me more." He catches his mother's narrowed eye and grins.

"Well, when I was a few years younger than you, seventeen or so, I came down here with my family," Oscar says, oblivious to Serveta's suffering and jumping at the opportunity to talk about himself, "as I did every summer since I was but a tot. I'd never really noticed Rose before—she was a bookish girl in her youth, and I was much more interested in her sister. But something about Rose had blossomed that summer—" Nathan groans, and Skwisgaar's smile twitches—"and we fell in love like that." Oscar claps his hands together, the sound echoing on the patio and causing Jean-Pierre to jump as he clears his dishes. "And I never loved another woman until your mother here."

"Oh, Oscar," Skwisgaar's mother says, scraping her nails against his skin. Skwisgaar does laugh, then, a short burst into his fist that he passes off as a cough.

The block party isn't until six, leaving them three hours to do whatever they wish until they have to get ready. Skwisgaar's mother and Oscar remain on the patio, Oscar reading the local newspaper and Skwisgaar's mother some celebrity gossip magazine, while Nathan and Skwisgaar retreat into their respective rooms. Skwisgaar considers going off and exploring the grounds, knowing there's a lake hiding in the woods somewhere and a ridiculous amount of scenic things to see, but he'd rather unpack his guitar and fuck around on it. So that's what he does, setting up the stand and the amp and tuning the thing, sitting on his bed and playing along to a metronome. His phone, relaxing on the nightstand, buzzes twice with texts from Trindle, and Skwisgaar ignores them both.

At five he puts his guitar away and takes a shower in his private bathroom. The shower is huge, with fantastic water pressure and high-end shampoo that feels like a fucking caress when he rubs it into his scalp. He steps out, towels off, and picks his attire for the evening: navy chinos, a brown leather belt, a white cable knit sweater and his trusted Sperrys. He shakes his hair and combs it over his shoulders, as he always does, affirming that he looks damn good in the mirror in the walk-in closet. He yanks his phone off the charger, pocketing it, before seeking out the rest of his family.

Nathan hasn't changed, still in the heavy black sweater and pants with the chains from earlier, but Oscar's swapped the polo for a button-down and his mother is in some monstrosity of a patterned red wrap dress. They pile into Oscar's car and take off for the Cornichons', where the block party is being held, as they're the oldest and richest family in the entirety of Andromeda's Vineyard.

Skwisgaar hadn't thought it possible to see a nicer house than theirs, but he was _wrong_, because the Cornichons' is like a miniature palace, on top of a hill and everything. It even elicits a noise of appreciation from Nathan as they drive up. With its elegant gray stone and elaborate garden it looks like it's walked off the page of a real estate ad, and the collection of upper-class vehicles parked outside only adds to that image. Oscar slides his own into the line-up and they make their way into the mansion, the gates and door propped open to allow people to trickle inside.

Though there are some patrons inside the house, the majority appear to be in the backyard, and that is where they head. Lights are strung up along the deck and on a gazebo that sits as a centerpiece of the yard, soft music filtering from speakers jammed in corners. Oscar seeks the Cornichon clan out, standing as a unit by a table with punchbowls and cocktails, and Skwisgaar, his mother and Nathan follow him. The Cornichon patriarch is a nondescript man with salt-and-pepper hair, his wife portly with an expensive haircut and a purple wrap dress that's just as hideous as Skwisgaar's mother's. Flanking them are two sons: one of them in a white suit with the collar popped and hair slicked back with a ludicrous amount of gel, the other in a flimsy tank-top and cheap jeans, obnoxiously red hair in dreadlocks and pulled back into a ponytail.

"Calvert," Oscar says, addressing the man, and "Molly," the woman.

"You," Nathan says, to the Cornichon boy with the dreadlocks, "I like you."

The guy looks Nathan up and down, a lopsided grin exploding on his face. "Likewise," he says, and he jams a hand in Nathan's direction.

Nathan takes it. "I've met Seth, but not you," he says. "Why the fuck is that?" and he's throwing an arm around the guy's shoulder, leading him away and leaving Skwisgaar alone.

Skwisgaar has no interest in getting to know Calvert, Molly, or Seth, though Seth is leering at him in a way that makes Skwisgaar wonder if he could get laid if he tried hard enough. He entertains the idea, briefly, imaging shoving the guy to his knees and ramming his cock into his mouth, but decides against it, thinking of the slimy way his hair would feel between his fingers if he tried to dig them into his scalp, and Skwisgaar's a fan of digging fingers into the scalp of those giving him a blowjob. So, Skwisgaar stalks off, in search of other people.

He finds an assortment of men in similar outfits to his own, all cashmere sweaters and chinos and khakis and twill and boat shoes and loafers, and women in their horrible wrap dresses or tiny versions of men's trends, clutching iPhones with monogrammed cases in these gaudy patterns. He sees Nathan and the other guy stashed away in a corner in the house smoking something—probably weed—and joins them, accepting the joint without so much a second thought.

"Man, this suck ass," Nathan says, and the other guy nods, that stupid smile still on his face.

"Always does," he says, and Skwisgaar passes the joint back to him. "Name's Pickles, by the way," he says to Skwisgaar.

"Cool," Skwisgaar says. He doesn't mean it.

"Yeah," Pickles says. "I was just tellin' Nathan here about how my parents had me in boarding school for, like, my entire life, man. Douchebags were tryin' to pretend I didn't exist. I showed them, though—ran away on the family dime, did a bunch of coke and strippers, huge scandal up and down the country. Formed a band and everything. We sucked, but hey." He takes a drag and exhales smoke, which seems to solidify between the three of them, hanging in midair. "Totally worth it."

"What instrument you plays?" Skwisgaar asks, now mildly interested.

"All of 'em," Pickles responds. Skwisgaar's eyebrows shoot up. "In the band, though? I was the lead singer."

"Oh," Skwisgaar says. He accepts the joint, takes a hit. "Dat's lame as shits."

"Agreed," Pickles says, and Skwisgaar wants so badly to dislike this rebellious rich kid stereotype smoking weed like it's a religion in front of him, but the guy is just so goddamned personable. "How 'bout you, Nate? You got somethin' to weigh in here with?"

"Likes a wrestler," Skwisgaar says, staring to feel a bit fuzzy around the edges. His comment goes ignored.

"I like metal," Nathan says, shrugging a single shoulder and prying the blunt from Pickles's hand. It's a good thing, too, because Pickles double over in laughter so hard he has to wipe away tears.

"I'm sorry, it's just—that's so _obvious_. Sorry." He straightens up, shakes his limbs loose. "Anyway, I'm back now, they fuckin' hired a guy to drag me back here. Better to contain me and have me as an embarrassment right under their noses than on the television from the other coast, I don't know. Ridiculous. But, hey, come here, I'll let you guys in on a little secret." He puts one arm around Nathan's shoulders and one arm around Skwisgaar's, having to stand on his toes to accomplish this, and pulls them close to him. Skwisgaar inhales some of the smoke that's just lounging between them. "This place, Andromeda's Vineyard? It's fuckin _crawlin_' with scandal. Here, I'll show you." He releases them, and watches the hallway, waits for somebody to pass by.

The first person that does is a blond guy in obnoxious sunglasses, way overdressed for the event. Pickles, currently in possession of the joint, jabs it in his direction. "That's Dick Knubbler," he says. "Yeah, go ahead and laugh, but listen here. See those two?" The joint now points to what is clearly a couple, a clean-cut lawyer-looking guy that's attractive in that plain sort of way, his arm chaste around the waist of a woman with a good complexion and a ritzy taste in jewelry. "Charles Ofdensen and Abigail Remeltindrinc. Married, but she kept her last name. So, Dick's a bigshot music producer, Charles's this huge lawyer, Abby's a music executive. The big rumor here is that Abby's cheating on Charles with Dick, and everybody believes that, but you know what I think?"

"Whats?" Skwisgaar asks, humoring him. He couldn't care less about the love affairs of boring-ass upper-class Americans.

"They're polyamorous! Totally all doin' each other." The smile on Pickles's face is about to split his head in two, and he's looking at Skwisgaar and Nathan like this is the most important thing in the world, like he's revealed to them the secret of life or some shit, and all Skwisgaar can do is take the joint and hit it, wish he had some vodka and a nice hole to sink into and then fuck with fury.

"No way," Nathan says, and he sounds genuinely flabbergasted. Whatever previous connection they'd built together earlier in the day, Skwisgaar now feels is lost.

"Yeah, way. And it doesn't end there. Knubbler has this servant boy, right, this totally pathetic guy that goes by the name Murderface. He's trying to convince us he killed somebody in prison, but I know the truth, 'cause I knew him when we were kids. He got arrested once for, like, pissing in public, didn't even spend the night in jail. Anyway—this totally pathetic dude—he's totally gay for Knubbler! And Knubbler ain't gay for him back! Ain't that just the sweetest shit?"

"Gross," is Nathan's only contribution, and Pickles nods, as if that's exactly the answer he had been looking for.

"Dis ams so lame," Skwisgaar gripes, and he shoves the joint back towards Pickles. "Ams gonna go finds somethingk more interestings, ugh." He turns around and in the distance hears Nathan asking Pickles who some chick is, if she's single, and if she's doable. Pickles's answer is yes, but he really shouldn't, and a look over Skwisgaar's shoulder confirms that Nathan is, indeed, going to do it, because he's approaching some stuck-up looking chick in a pastel sweater with pursed lips. All the luck to him, Skwisgaar thinks.

He wanders through every area he can access of the Cornichons' mansion. It's overflowing with expensive, worldly artifacts, particularly of the Asian and Arab varieties, statues of Buddha on shelves and elaborate tapestries hanging on walls. He didn't pin them for the travelling type, but he's only had a minute of indirect interaction, so maybe they're not as bad as Pickles is painting them to be. When he passes a bookshelf that contains several bibles and bible analyses, he immediately changes his mind and decides that, yeah, they probably suck. In the kitchen he tries to get himself a cup of spiked punch, but some old guy asks him out old he is and refuses to give him any when he answers, honestly, that he's twenty. Behind him, he hears a snicker, and turns around to see some young man with hair in a ponytail and a vest, an interesting combination.

"Problems?" Skwisgaar asks, appraising the guy. Not unattractive, weird taste in shoes and belts, general weird vibe around him. He wonders what Pickles would have to say (or bullshit) about him.

"That's just so cute," the guy says, and Skwisgaar wonders if he's incapacitated, because he stutters on the _c _in cute. He walks past Skwisgaar and ladles some spiked punch into a plastic cup, turning around to give it to Skwisgaar before getting more for himself. The punch bowl's protector doesn't object to this, that bastard.

"Thanks," Skwisgaar says, slamming the punch back. It's the best punch he's ever had, which pisses him off in this abstract way. "Who's you?"

"Leonard Rockstein, baby," the guy says. He drinks all of the punch in a chugging motion, his Adam's apple bobbing, and crumples the plastic cup up, throwing it at the old guy. The old guy sighs, picks it up and throws it away. Skwisgaar figures he must be one of the help, and is immediately enamored with this Leonard guy, not remembering a thing Oscar had said about him. He drinks the rest of his punch, too, and repeats the process of throwing it at the servant, laughing his ass off.

"Awesomes," Skwisgaar says, turning back to Leonard, who nods.

"I have some cocaine," he says, stuttering again. "Wanna come do it with me?" Skwisgaar is not impervious to the double entendre, and he's definitely up for blowing in all senses of the word, so he follows Leonard out of the kitchen. Leonard takes his hand, leading him up the marble staircase like he owns the place, and into what seems to be a guest bedroom, all dark wood and forest green accents. He produces a hefty bag of cocaine from his pocket, his eyes glimmering.

They snort it off the dresser, using some of Leonard's hundred-dollar bills, and Skwisgaar's never felt like as much as a rich prick as he does in that moment, sucking up this high-quality coke and seeing the elation on Leonard's face in the mirror. Skwisgaar's in love with the feeling, substances running in his system and his mouth heavy with the fruity tang of the punch. After a few more lines it seems like a good idea to jam it in Leonard's mouth, see if he tastes and feels like Skwisgaar does, and he _does_, it's great. He snakes a hand up his vest, twists his nipples, and the next thing he's aware of is the sensation of sheets with thread counts in the thousands under his back, Leonard straddling his hips, undoing his belt.

Skwisgaar doesn't bottom often, but there's something about this guy that makes him want to, that makes him _hunger _for it, and he lets him roll his pants over his hips and tangle his hands in Skwisgaar's hair. He has enough sense to take his wallet out and produce a condom, giving it to Leonard because he's pretty sure the idea hadn't occurred to him, and he nods once, shoves it on his cock unceremoniously. They alternate between coke and sex for the next few hours, until the sun has long since set outside and Skwisgaar phone is ringing with his mother calling. He's lying in bed, wearing his sweater and nothing else, Leonard doing yet another line and mumbling to himself. Whatever—Skwisgaar wouldn't let _that _fuck him, anyway.

"Whats?" he hisses into the phone, regardless.

"Where the hells ams you?" If her English is slipping and she's yelling at him, she's probably drunk, which means she can't judge Skwisgaar for being drunk nor high nor fucking a guy that's now talking about himself in the third person using _Dr. Rockso. _

"Heres," Skwisgaar says. He pinches the phone between his shoulder and his face and gets out of bed, locating his boxers and khakis on the floor. He can't find his belt, which is pissing him off because it's a good belt, but whatever. When he checks his wallet he sees he's missing a few bills, too, but his mother's shrill voice in his ear is telling him that they have to get going _now_, Skwisgaar, and so Skwisgaar doesn't have the time to confront Leonard—or Dr. Rockso, whatever—about it. "Okays, moms," he says, and he zips his pants and hangs the phone up. He searches for his Sperrys, one of which is centered under the bed and the other is hanging on a bedpost, somehow, and slips into them.

"You leavin', baby?" Leonard purrs, walking over to Skwisgaar. There's white on his nose and red in his eyes and he puts a hand on the back of Skwisgaar's neck, strokes it. "We had such a good time, though, makes Dr. Rockso sad to see you go."

"You's a crazies clowns and I hates you," Skwisgaar says, plainly. "Good sex, doe. Don'ts calls me." He hadn't given this guy his number, but sometimes it's good to be dramatic. He walks out of the room, goes to meet his mother and the rest of them by the car.

On the ride back Skwisgaar is fucked out of his mind, his pupils dilated and his head rolling. Nathan is texting, probably either Pickles or that girl he picked up, maybe both. Skwisgaar's mother's hand is all but cupping Oscar's crotch, and while he seems sober, and he's not complaining about that, either. The five minutes it takes feels like five years, and Skwisgaar's thinking about that stupidly nice shower and his stupidly nice bed. He could really, _really _get used to life as a rich douchebag.


	2. Chapter 2

Skwisgaar wakes up in the morning convinced he's gone blind, pain throbbing in his head and his eyes crusted shut. It takes him a few minutes, but he rolls over onto his back and finds he's not blind, just a little hungover from the party despite the lack of alcohol he had consumed. He cracks his eyes open, vision swimming with syrupy memories from the night before. His ass burns, and he remembers bouncing on the lap of Leonard Rockstein, gripping the headboard for support. Oh, _right_. He grabs his phone from the nightstand and checks it to see three texts from Trindle, as well as the time. It's much earlier than he thought it was, and because he can't neglect her _that _much, he sends a good morning text Trindle's way.

He gets out of bed and pads straight into the shower of the adjacent bathroom. He's already naked from sleeping, so he just gets in and turns the water on, lets it massage all of the ills of the previous night out of him. He probably wouldn't have hooked up with that Leonard guy had it not been such a lame-ass party, but it _was _a lame-ass party, and it'd been a while since he'd had a good fucking. He's been thinking about asking Trindle to take him with a strap-on, but he still has some dignity, and he's really just waiting for her to dump him and go for Nathan. Her blowjobs are subpar, but effortless and reliable.

With his fingers massaging shampoo in his scalp he hears the door to his bedroom open and somebody walking in. He can just pick some whistling up over the thrum of the shower, and he has a feeling it's Toki, there to clean up. He rinses the shampoo from his hair and steps out of the shower, wraps a towel loosely around his waist. It occurs to him that he might be able to coax some sort of reaction out of Toki if he just walked out naked and dripping, but his head still sort of hurts and he's not supposed to be mean to the help, so he strides out somewhat decent.

"Aren'ts you supposeds to ask de permissions?" Skwisgaar asks, leaning against the doorway. Toki looks up from making Skwisgaar's bed and his eyes go so wide Skwisgaar can see the flesh around them. Skwisgaar fights back a smirk—there's shock and attraction written all over Toki's face. God, the kid makes it so easy. "You knows, before cleaningks de room." He makes a sweeping motion with the hand that has been holding his towel in place, allowing it to fall and expose the dip of his hips before he snatches it back up. He watches as Toki's eyes follow the movement.

Toki stammers out his reply: "I'm sorry, sir." The color of his skin seems to disallow blushing, but the way he's biting his bottom lip is good enough. "I'll ask next time. Um. I thought it might be nice if you came back to a clean room after your shower."

Skwisgaar taps his lip. "I supposes," he says, slowing the tapping down and hooking his finger. "Ams cleans enough for nows, doe. Scrams." He shoos Toki out with both hands and lets his towel fall as Toki turns around and leaves the room.

His phone buzzes, then, with a response from Trindle. He looks at it and sighs, not even bothering to check it. She'd wanted to come to Andromeda's Vineyard with Skwisgaar and Nathan, and Skwisgaar's mother was okay with that, as they'd been dating for about five months and therefore could be considered _serious_, but Skwisgaar couldn't even imagine having Trindle around to crimp him. He'll deal with her later, after the summer ends and when the leaves begin to fall, a good time for change and letting go of childish habits.

He dresses down for the day, khakis that cling to his ankles and a white polo with none of the buttons done up but the collar puffed. He goes downstairs for breakfast and finds a note on the refrigerator—Oscar and his mother have gone out for golf and, later, some sort of luncheon with the rest of the boring adults. Skwisgaar and Nathan have the house, the grounds, and the help to themselves, and Skwisgaar can't imagine a more perfect day. He pulls the refrigerator open and grabs a bottle of water, holding it to his forehead before drinking it. Even the water tastes better here, especially in contrast with the heat.

He summons Jean-Pierre and asks him to cook him a good breakfast; Jean-Pierre nods and goes about that. Skwisgaar exits the kitchen and takes up residence in the den, sprawling across an overstuffed leather couch and turning the television on. He watches the local news until Jean-Pierre comes to him with a tray containing a delightful assemble of scrambled eggs, sausage, juice and fruit. Skwisgaar feasts like a king, watching the weather channel, learning about the day's immense heat and the night's incoming storm. Nathan passes through and raises an eyebrow at Skwisgaar's plate; Skwisgaar gestures towards the kitchen and Nathan seems to catch on, because he walks that way, all in black like a ghost of a widow drifting through the house of her dead husband.

The sunny weather and warmth inspires Skwisgaar to relax by the pool, something he's never done before. He returns to his room to fish out his bathing suit, something small, black and European, then heads downstairs to where the pool is off towards one side of the grounds. The pool itself is both long and wide, bordered by baroque tiles and lavish loungers, the water clear and blue. Skwisgaar toes it, finds the cold appealing even though it awakens his previously dormant headache, and moves to the deep end to dive in.

The water on his body, in his face, accosting his senses, is a religious experience. When he surfaces and throws his hair back, the imminent heat and air leaves his sputtering. The sun scorches the back of his head, but in a contrast that appeals to him, and there's a breeze that manages to leave goosebumps on his skin. He opens his eyes, and the first thing he sees is Toki, standing at the other end of the pool with a nervous expression and a net in his hands. Skwisgaar is overcome with—something, a feeling not like any he's ever experienced. He's drawn to Toki, like some sort of mythical water beast may be drawn to its prey. He wants to swim to him, open his mouth and enchant him with a song. Pull him under and kiss him until he drowns.

Instead, he wades water and says, "De fuck, Toki? Can'ts you stops stalkingks me for three seconds?"

"Sorry," Toki calls out. He walks around to talk to Skwisgaar better, and Skwisgaar swims towards him. They meet in the middle, at a place where the water is shallow enough for Skwisgaar to stand on his soles and be able to see and breathe. "It's just, I clean the pool at this time." He's clutching the handle of the net and pushing it against his face, leaning into it, looking down, and it's sort of endearing. Skwisgaar stuffs that thought down as far as it can go.

"You's a walkingks stereotype," Skwisgaar says. He moves his hand through the water, creating a small wave in its wake. Tries to make himself seem bored by the conversation. "Cleans de pool sometimes else."

"Well, you see, I have a very strict schedule." Toki is stuttering, but he's also made eye contact with Skwisgaar, a sort of fierceness lurking behind his guard. "And today, at noon, I clean the pool. I have to put chemicals in it, so you can't swim."

"Moves your schedule." Skwisgaar kicks off the floor of the pool and relaxes in the water, floating. Coldness on his back, heat on his chest, it's exquisite. "Go does somethingks else."

"No," Toki says, firm. He moves the net away from his face and scoops it into the water, trapping an errant leaf, as if to prove his point.

"Uh, ja," Skwisgaar say. He's at the other end of the pool now, resting his head up on the tile. "I ams de masters, you's ams de servants, you's does as I say."

"You are not the master and I am not the servant." Toki removes the net from the pool and stands with his fists balled on his hips. "Now get out of the fucking pool."

Something about Toki's stance and his use of the word _fucking _causes Skwisgaar to slip out of his languid position, his head sliding off the side of the pool and his limbs falling downwards so that he is temporarily submerged. He thrashes and fights to break to surface after a few seconds, and a glance at Toki reveals that he's trying hard to not laugh and retain his determination as Skwisgaar glares at him. Dignity lost, Skwisgaar swims to the steps of the pool at the shallow end and climbs out. He makes sure to do so in the most dramatic manner he can conjure, shaking his head to free it of water, stretching his arms and legs, arching his back.

"Thank you," Toki says as Skwisgaar walks past him, and Skwisgaar waves a hand. He takes his towel from where he'd left it on a lounger and dries off before climbing into the lounger itself, securing sunglasses on his face. He closes his eyes and relaxes, bathing in the sun, the warmth, the peace and quiet. His relaxation is interrupted only by the soft sounds of Toki tending to the pool, and eventually he slips his sunglasses down his nose to watch Toki working. He's tied his hair behind his head in a knot and he performs his chores just as perfunctorily. Skwisgaar catches him pausing, swirling the net around and stirring a slow whirlpool, staring off into space. Interesting. Skwisgaar slides the sunglasses back up his face, rests his head back on the lounger, and falls into an early afternoon nap.

When he awakes, his skin is too warm for his tastes. He hisses and sits up, pushes the sunglasses into his hair. The pool looks alluring with the sunlight dancing in waves, and he's craving it, but he doesn't know if it's safe to swim or whatever after Toki had performed his chores. He's not about to seek Toki out, so he's left crouching in a lounger, considering his options. He's cut short by the reappearance of exactly who he needs to see, carrying a shovel over one shoulder and whistling, looking dirtier and more haggard than he had been while cleaning the pool.

"Tokis!" Skwisgaar calls. Toki stops, startles, and looks in Skwisgaar's direction. Something passes over his face, a sort of skepticism, maybe, and Toki approaches him.

"What?" he asks. Deprived of whistling, he's beating his hand against his thigh.

"Ams de pools safe?"

"Yeah," Toki says. He moves a stray strand of hair away from his face.

"I thought—de chemicals?" Skwisgaar pops an eyebrow.

"Oh, I didn't actually use any chemicals," Toki says. He's trying to be cool, but there's a nervous tone leaking between his teeth, tainting his words. "I only said that to get you out of the pool."

"You—idiots!" Skwisgaar climbs out of the lounger and once more dives into the pool. The relief he expected is there, water soothing the warmth on his skin, and when he comes up for air he sees Toki still standing by where Skwisgaar has set up base, the shovel lowered so that it's standing. Skwisgaar kicks his way towards that side of the pool, rests his arms on the tile. "Thoughts yous has a schedule," he says to Toki.

"Not really." Toki shrugs. "Again—I kind of, um, said that to get you out of the pool." Skwisgaar doesn't know if it's from the heat or embarrassment (probably the heat), but Toki's skin is looking waxy and red underneath the soil smeared across his nose and cheeks.

"Wells," Skwisgaar says. "Does you wants to joins me? You looks likes you coulds use a bath."

The skepticism Skwisgaar thought he saw on Toki's face returns with a vengeance, and Toki moves the shovel in a confused circle that creates an unpleasant grating sound. Skwisgaar twitches, about to retract his offer, when Toki says, "You just called me your servant. Servants don't swim with their masters."

Skwisgaar scoffs. "Don'ts wants you here anysway."

Toki gives him a strange look. He bends and puts the shovel on the ground, then walks to a lounger, sitting in it. "I need a break," he says, and he does sound tired, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. Something about his neck makes Skwisgaar feel like a vampire.

"You's de worst servants ever," Skwisgaar mumbles, and he kicks off on the wall of the pool, doing a backflip into the water.

While under the surface, eyes squeezed shut, he hears and feel the submergence of another body. When he reemerges he once more sees Toki, this time wading water in the deepest part of the pool, his hair fanning out around him and face wet with sweat and relief. Skwisgaar raises his eyebrows; Toki swims to him, surprisingly eloquent, all rippling sinew of muscles and speed. He stops when he's on Skwisgaar's other side, able to stand, and puts his hands on his hips.

"Better?" Toki asks, cocking his head to the side.

"Ja, sure." Skwisgaar runs both his palms through the water, sending a tidal wave towards Toki, and then it's _on_.

They chase each other around the pool, splashing and laughter and shouting taunts. Skwisgaar chalks it up to boredom—it's only his second day here, he doesn't know anybody yet, you can't resist a good swim, Nathan would never want to do this, and the servant boy makes a quick and easy friend—and not to the way that Toki's eyes glimmer with mischief, his mouth quirks with quips, his body generally glistens. Skwisgaar won't admit it, but he's having _fun_. There's this carefree sort of air that he's never felt before, some hidden box of childhood glee deep inside him unlocking and releasing its contents into his bloodstream.

Afterwards they climb out of the pool, rambunctiousness still gripping them and causing them to swing their hips towards the other, push off against each other's shoulders. Skwisgaar has a single towel that he uses to dry himself, tousling it through his hair, now more curly than wavy; Toki spreads himself over a lounger, damp cargo shorts sticking around his thighs, and blocks the sun from his eyes with the back of his hands. Skwisgaar had noticed long, thin scars marking Toki's back while they were swimming, but he's not about to say anything about that, so he sits on the lounger beside Toki's and pokes him in the side.

"Ams hungry," Skwisgaar complains. He balls the towel and puts it in his lap.

"I'm not Jean-Pierre." Toki rolls his head, cracks an eye open, ad even in that small window of an expression he can convey annoyance. Skwisgaar is impressed.

"I knows dat, idiot." Skwisgaar scoffs, but he was sort of hoping that Toki would summon Jean-Pierre telepathically or something. "Just sayin's, I's been out here a whiles, am hungries."

"Sounds like a personal problem." Toki rolls his head back, closing his eyes again.

Skwisgaar lays down in his respective lounger, one leg bent and one leg straight, finds his sunglasses from the floor and puts them on his face. "Ams everybody at Andromeda's a dick, evens de servants?"

"Everybody at Andromeda's is sort of a dick, yeah. Even the servants." Toki's voice is tired, and he's speaking slower, an accent more evident. "I've lived here my whole life. Everybody is rich, and rich people suck, and the people that aren't rich suck, too, but a little less, I guess. I never get to see them because I'm too busy taking care of these sucky rich people."

"Uh," Skwisgaar says, because he _is _a sucky rich person and is taking offense.

"You suck less, maybe. I haven't decided yet."

"You amns't so great yousself." Skwisgaar snorts, but he looks at Toki right after he says this and Toki happens to be looking right back at him, and a smile fights its way to his face without his permission. He suppresses it as fast as he can. "Anysways. I hasn't been rich all my life, you knows. Useds to be poor."

"Really?" Toki sounds skeptical. "I think our definitions of poor are most likely different."

Skwisgaar shakes his head. "Noes, I was poor poors. We comes from Sweden when I was real littles and then we liveds in New York for a long times. Just me and my moms. She was a maid in de hospital dat Oscar's wife, Rose, was in when she had de cancer." He doesn't mention the years he spent wishing he was wealthy, working weekends, nights and summers to afford nice guitars and good clothes, how secretly ecstatic he'd been when his mother started dating a millionaire desperate for his approval.

"Oh. I remember when she first started getting sick. They stopped coming down here and started renting the house out. I've met a lot of rich people." Skwisgaar hears movement and peeks to see Toki rolling on his stomach, the scars on his back visible and unabashed. Skwisgaar wants to reach out and touch them, beg their story, but something's keeping him from doing that. Pride, or lack of a sticking interest, perhaps.

Skwisgaar mirrors Toki's actions, but once his thighs hits the lounger he yelps and leaps back, off of it. He glances down at his skin, noticing how warm it feels, and sees how red it is, bright and pastel as the stains a cheap cherry popsicle will leave.

"You're sunburned!" Toki sits up, laughs. "That's really funny. You look kind of like a tomato in a cheap wig."

Skwisgaar glares at him, wants to mouth off to him, but can't. "Never beens sunburned before," he grumbles, pressing his fingers into his forearm, feeling the sting and watching the skin turn from red to white to red again. "De hells do I does?"

"How should I know? I don't burn. I tan." Toki gestures to himself, and Skwisgaar deepens his glare, because even in this short amount of time Toki's skin seems to have soaked in the sunlight and turned an even better bronze. "Sorry. Um. You sort of stay inside and you can put aloe gel on it? I think I've seen ice baths on TV, but that's only for really bad sunburns. Is yours really bad?"

"I don'ts _know_," Skwisgaar says through gritted teeth. "Never has one before."

Toki sighs. "Let's go inside. You can just, like, Google it."

Skwisgaar shakes his head. "Ams you's fault," he says. "Ams goingks in by myself and will takes care of it by myself." He collects his things and stars his trek back to the house; Toki does not call after him and Skwisgaar does not look over his shoulder.

He feels insurmountably stupid as he retreats to his bedroom. He fishes his new laptop out from his suitcase and sits on the ugly floral chaise against one wall of his bedroom, and even the tiny amount of warmth from the bottom of his laptop on his thighs sets him on fire. He Googles what to do, finds a list that says exactly what Toki did. He strips out of his bathing suit and dresses in the lightest, loosest clothes he owns, then roots through his bathroom for aloe or the like. He finds none, and is stumped, because he doesn't feel much like parading around the house and showcasing his stupidity, nor going through every single bathroom in the place. In the end, he decides to go to the kitchen and get lunch, his stomach growling.

He's eating an Italian vegetable soup with crackers on the side and thinking about how much this whole sunburn thing sucks when he sees Toki again, walking into the kitchen wearing gloves and holding a thing of bleach. He stops short when he says Skwisgaar, his lips and chest twitching with an obvious effort to hold laughter in.

"What's you want?" Skwisgaar snaps, glowering over the spoon of soup he's blowing on to cool down.

Toki laughs, then, and immediately straightens himself up. He shakes his head. "Nothing, _sir_."

"Fucks you. Finds me some aloe." Skwisgaar sniffs, turns away from Toki and stuffs the spoon in his mouth. Toki nods once, gives a sort of military salute, and heads off.

Skwisgaar doesn't expect Toki to actually come through, so he's unsurprised when he finishes his lunch without seeing him again. He goes back to the den he'd been in at the beginning of the day and finds Nathan sitting in there with his back against the couch, Pickles at his side. There's the obvious stench of weed clinging to the air in the room, and Nathan and Pickles are laughing their asses off at the traffic report, not even noticing when Skwisgaar comes into the room. Something inside of him boils and he passes through the room, decides to just retreat to his bedroom. Maybe he'll call Trindle.

He doesn't call Trindle, but he does read the ten texts he's sent him over the course of the day (three of them inquire about Nathan) and sends her back a short paragraph: _wents swimming ams board sort of sux here lol_. He would normally attach a selfie, but he doesn't want her to see his sunburn, so instead he puts his phone back and gathers his guitar in his lap, fucks around on it for a while. Blisses out.

His door opens and Toki walks in, holding a clear bottle with something thick, green and slimy inside of it. Skwisgaar doesn't stop playing, but does say, "Ams you still stalkingks me?"

"Um. You asked me to get this for you." Toki rolls his eyes, comes to Skwisgaar's bedside and puts the container down. Lotion. Aloe. Skwisgaar nods, making a dismissing motion with his hand, but Toki doesn't leave. "You play the guitar?"

"Obviouskly." Skwisgaar's turn to roll his eyes, but he segues into something faster, showier, than what he'd been playing, the short solo to one of his favorite songs and one of the first things he's learned. He stills his hand after playing that, waits for Toki's praise.

"That's cool," Toki says. "I, uh—since my dad dies—" he coughs—"I've been learning to play the piano. But I've always liked the guitar."

"Wow, Toki, dat ams just so interestingks." Skwisgaar says it out of reflex, but realizes that it _is _sort of interesting, and stammers out a retreat. "I means. Piano ams just lames. Ams nothingks in comparisons to the guitar."

"Yeah, I know that."

There's a pause, pregnant and awkward. Toki's looking down at the bedcovers and Skwisgaar at the aloe gel beside him. Skwisgaar drags his pick down the strings, and the noise reminds them of who and where they are, as Toki clears his throat and says, "Hope the aloe helps," before leaving from the room in a hurry.

Skwisgaar puts his guitar back on its stand and unplugs it. He grabs the aloe gel and goes to the bathroom, undresses and lathers it all over his body. It hurts at first, and then it soothes him, relaxes him. It occurs to him as he drags his hands over his thighs that he could probably jack off with this, and the idea sticks in his mind. It's vaguely perverse, because Toki brought him the gel and it's Toki he's trying _not _to think of as he fists the base of his dick and tugs. In ten minutes he's gripping the sink and coming into a tissue, very much warding away any thoughts about any particularly annoying servants.

He takes a nap afterwards, turning on the ceiling fan and sleeping underneath a single thin sheet, trying to cool his body down. When he wakes it's time for dinner and he's still feeling the sunburn and pissed _at _the sunburn, but the thought of Jean-Pierre's delicious food is enough to drag him out of bed, into his clothes and down the stairs. They're eating on the patio out back tonight, grilled salmon and scalloped potatoes, tangy lemonade on the side to drink. When his mother sees him as he takes his seat, she laughs.

"You burnt yourself!" she exclaims after the fit of giggles, pointing at him. She nudges Oscar, sitting to her right "Oscar, look, it's Skwisgaar's first sunburn."

Oscar chuckles, and Skwisgaar slinks down in his seat. "Did you go swimming or something today?" he asks, and the interest is so forced Skwisgaar's face arranges itself into a sour expression. He nods, nonetheless. "That's good. I love the pool here. Nathan learned to swim there, didn't he? I bet you don't even remember." Oscar points his fork at Nathan, who makes some sort of guttural noise and hand motion.

"We'll have to try it tomorrow," Skwisgaar's mother says, and Skwisgaar crinkles his nose at the way she manages to thread implications into the sentence. "I'm so tired from the luncheon today. These people can be so…well, tiring."

Oscar laughs. "I'm sure they say the same of us, dear." Skwisgaar nearly chokes on the fish he's trying to swallow.

"None of the kids—young ones, I mean, came to the luncheon," Skwisgaar's mother pouts. "They were all 'home sick.' Everybody thinks there's something going around, but I think it must have been some party you all were having behind our backs." She's not helping Skwisgaar's choking situation, and he takes a long swig of lemonade, the sourness clinging to his tongue and esophagus on its way down.

"That was strange," Oscar muses. Nathan snorts.

Oscar and Serveta catch Nathan and Skwisgaar up on the gossip in the Vineyard as if they were interested: Dick Knubbler is paying for one of the boys that work at his house, William Murderface, to receive therapy and get over him so that he may continue to indulge in a secret relationship. The therapist's name is John Twinkletits, and he was at the luncheon, holding a finger to his lip in a shushing gesture anytime somebody tried to acquire knowledge about the situation through him. Oscar and Serveta come to the conclusion that he was doing this to draw attention to himself and get people to ask him about Knubbler and Murderface so that he may hold some superiority over them. Skwisgaar refrains from feeding them the information he'd gotten from Pickles the night before, instead picks at his dinner, apathetic.

The summer storm that the news had told Skwisgaar of earlier rolls in on the heels of their dinner. They retreat into the safety of their house, and Skwisgaar sits by a huge window in the formal living room, watching the rain come down, listening to the thunder and looking for lightning. He thinks of Toki—he hasn't seen him since the aloe incident, and he's probably in his little house on the grounds with his mother. Skwisgaar doesn't know what he does in his off time; maybe he's playing the piano, or maybe he's watching the storm, too. It lessens as time goes on, but continues to rain and thunder. Skwisgaar grows bored of it eventually, going back to the den (now without Pickles) to watch television late into the night.

Around one in the morning he goes to bed. It's still raining, enough for him to be able to hear it as he lays in bed. He applied more aloe, but heat still manages to trap itself inside of his blankets, every inch of his body feeling like the sun itself is rolling around on it. He tosses and turns, unable to get comfortable or cool off, rage boiling inside of him in equal amounts as the heat itself. His mind wanders as if in a fever dream as sleep comes and go like a wave at a shore—wanders to Toki, envisions him in the same situation in a poorly air-conditioned groundskeeper's cottage, thinking of Skwisgaar in a sort of a strange, sick symmetry. Thunder claps overhead, startles Skwisgaar out of that fantasy, and in five minutes he's asleep for the night.


End file.
